


Chana

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-07
Updated: 2009-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By afternoon's end, Rodney's exhausted. The storm damage on Miitra is severe – walls toppled, trees downed, power lost – and his long hours of labor in the Works have barely made an impression, measured against what still awaits repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chana

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dogeared for the wonderful beta!

By afternoon's end, Rodney's exhausted. The storm damage on Miitra is severe – walls toppled, trees downed, power lost – and his long hours of labor in the Works have barely made an impression, measured against what still awaits repair. He stretches his fingers against a cramp in his hand, sits on the Great Hall steps at the center of the town's main square and watches as others drift back from their work. Ronon's still squinting up at the roofline of the market house, gesturing at the need for a new beam, or tile, or guttering, or all of the above, deep in conversation with Malik and Aaba and a half-dozen Miitrans whose names Rodney can't recall. Teyla appears then disappears, in and out of doorways, carrying candles and distributing flashlights – Rodney can hear the now-and-then cadence of her laughter, a token of resilience met gladly in this tattered world. He grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes and blinks against the setting sun. There are tables to drag from house to square, food to carry, water to pump – but for a moment he just sits, grit beneath the collar of his t-shirt, fatigue a low ache at the base of his skull.

He hears Sheppard before he sees him, before the raucous game of Chana makes it into the square. There's shouting and chanting and the squeal of children, and between Sheppard's futile attempt to impose order – "Bring that back here, you goddamn . . . That is _so_ not in the rules!" – Rodney can hear the helpless spill of Sheppard's manic laugh.

The Chana ball rolls out from the alley beside Mater Zala's home, and in the next instant the square is full of children – filthy, mud-covered children chasing the ball, flipping it to each other with agile kicks, scooping it up with their hands and throwing it one to the next, Sheppard in pursuit. The whole square grinds to an indulgent halt to watch, the men at the cook table slowing their work, the builders pausing atop the fallen Ekra steeple. Rodney's half aware of a growing wealth of smiles about him, that in children's play there is healing that has nothing to do with stone and clay and the circuits he can mend – but it's Sheppard he's watching; Sheppard who's streaked with mud and licking at a cut lip; Sheppard who's trying not to trip children as he runs and who gives up and grabs at them, carrying one under each arm, laughing theatrically as they squeal with delight.

Chana operates amid rules Rodney can't fathom – there are no goalposts, or teams, or ways to score points that he's ever been able to see. Why everyone always ends up covered in dirt is a mystery to him; why grazed elbows are par for the course is equally beyond his ken. But Sheppard seems to have worked out his place in the scheme of things, in the muddle of ball and children and mud, and the ball travels twice around the central Teesha pillar before someone's mother calls for everyone to stop acting like Aacka birds and wash up before dinner. The children groan and whine but disperse, and Rodney notices John has taught everyone how to give high fives.

"You look as though you've been rooting for truffles," he sniffs as John ambles over, grinning laconically and probing at his lip with the tip of his tongue.

"Eh, you know," John says, unbuttoning his shirt.

"No, I don't," Rodney says. "From where I sit it looks like . . . . like . . ."

John tosses his shirt on the steps near Rodney's feet, pulls his t-shirt out of his pants. "No point in playing if you're not going to try and make a Datik," he explains, as if that clears up everything, and he throws his t-shirt aside, walks to the pump, works the handle a couple of times. "I mean – that'd just make you a Zopla, Rodney." And he ducks his head under the clean, cold water the pump provides.

Rodney has a thousand comebacks – he's a very smart man and he can translate Zopla, thank you very much – but his tongue seems to have glued itself to the roof of his mouth at the sight of John washing dust and biffin seeds out of his hair. John shakes his head a little, pushes his hair up against the grain, swipes a hand across his face – Rodney sees the shiver that runs the length of John's spine.

"Oh," Rodney manages as John straightens up, water running down his neck, trailing down his chest.

"Oh?" John asks. He looks ridiculous, hair askew, BDU pants streaked with grime – ridiculous, ridiculous, Rodney tells himself, but he still stands up, still walks the seven, eight steps across to where John stands.

"You're, uh – " He glances from John's hair to the water beading low on his belly. "That is – I mean . . ."

And John grins delightedly, reaches out and wraps water-cold fingers around the back of Rodney's neck. "Later," he promises as he leans in to kiss him, a brief, lush press of lips, mineral-sharp.

Rodney rests a hand at John's bare hip, drags his thumb over slick, cold skin. "Okay," he whispers, and kisses John a little more fervently, only stopping when the Chana ball hits him square in the ass. "What the – "

"Ekra just won," John tells him solemnly – the traitor's struggling to keep a straight face.

Rodney resolves to be dignified, no matter that his finger is twitching and he'd like to teach the Miitran children how to flip the bird. "Yes, well," he says. "Chana is for idiots. And I can still eat more bisha than anyone at the table, which makes me Lord High Emperor of seven games of Upaah so far."

John grins again, and slides a hand under Rodney's t-shirt, splaying his fingers across Rodney's belly. "Yeah?" he asks. "I'm sleeping with royalty?"

"Yes," Rodney says. "So it's probably best you wash more thoroughly," and he grabs for the pump, sweeps John's legs out from under him with one stubborn foot, empties buckets of water on John's stupid head, and when John laughs out loud, he maybe, possibly does too.


End file.
